What I Wish I’d Said, Part One

As much as I love to write, I hate to speak. Put another way, I hate speaking even more than I love writing. And that’s saying something.

Looking for someone to raise her hand in a business meeting? Look away from me. Words of wisdom? Well, there’s a book I can recommend. And anything close to my deepest feelings? Um. Can I get back to you on that?

I don’t have the gift. The moment passes. Hours later, though – usually between two and three in the morning – I have absolute clarity. In the quiet, in the dark, when it's far too late, and I should be sleeping – it comes to me: What I should have said.

A few weeks ago, I was with my mom and siblings to celebrate the life of Mom's husband, Bob, who died a year ago. It was a brilliant idea, really. After the angst and difficulty and mourning of the year, we gathered to share favorite memories of the man who’d made such a powerful imprint on our lives. I reveled in everyone else’s stories – in hearing the tried and the true and the ones I’d somehow forgotten. But then, my sister says, “Cheri, tell us your favorite memory.” 

So I said -- nothing.

I froze. Rock hard, sub-zero, re-route traffic, school’s closed, the water main's busted, Kelsius zero. While everyone else was thoughtful and emotional and generous with their memories, everything that came to my mind sounded trite and trivial and silly. I had nothing meaningful to contribute. Nothing at all. 

But then it came to me. About eight hours too late.

Somewhere between two and three in the morning, it came to me. My favorite memory of Bob – what I loved most about him – was the way he loved Mom.  He loved her inside and out. He loved her “because,” and he loved her “regardless.” When I think back over their nearly 30 year marriage, I have to admit that there were times when their relationship was maddening. They did everything together. Everything. They worked together. They shopped together. They thought together. They decided together. They cooked together. They ate together. They prayed together.Ask either one of them a question – even the simplest of questions – and the answer was predictable: Let’s talk with your Mama. Let me talk to Uncle Bob.

He doted on her and adored her. It was obvious that Bob saw my mom the way I did -- as the most brilliant, beautiful, capable person on the planet. His Christmas and birthday gifts to her were always over the top, but nothing was more extravagant than the love he demonstrated, day in and day out. He was mindful of the little things that often get brushed away and overlooked in longterm relationships. He really cared. He cared about Mom. He cared about her feelings. He cared about her kids.

Uncle Bob set the bar high. As we all watched, he demonstrated how to put someone else -- my mom -- first. He loved my mom – in an extraordinary, exceptional, life-altering kind of way. He showed me what it was to love -- and to be loved. He showed me what was possible in a relationship. He helped me figure out what I wanted in my own relationship.

I wish I’d said that.

Best Ever Pimento Cheese Spread
To celebrate Bob's life, we also indulged in some of his favorite foods: roasted oysters, egg salad sandwiches, shrimp, cream cheese and olive sandwiches, spanish peanuts, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, blue cheese dip, and pimento cheese. When I was growing up in Charleston, pimento cheese (or, as some folks pronounced it, "minner" cheese) sandwiches were served at receptions of every sort -- all fancy, on white bread with the crusts cut off.  In fact, Bob often said that if egg salad sandwiches and pimento cheese sandwiches hadn't been served at your reception, then you weren't actually married at all.

6 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (or more to taste)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
fresh ground black pepper
2 teaspoons grated onion (optional)
10 oz. extra sharp Cheddar cheese, freshly grated (do not use pre-grated)
4 oz. canned pimentos, chopped


In a medium sized mixing bowl, combine all ingredients except cheese and pimentos.  Gradually stir in cheese and pimentos until well combined and moistened.  Chill for an hour or two, and use as a dip for celery sticks or a spread on sandwiches or crackers.

Ready Or Not: Pomp And Circumstance Is About To Play

Carter graduates in five weeks. OK. If you do the math, he graduates in five weeks, three days, 11 hours and 30 minutes.

I know.  There’s an app for that. But I’m doing my level best not to keep track. What possible good could come from remembering that he leaves for college in precisely three months, three weeks, and one day?

I don’t want to know. Despite my role as family planner, overbearing maestro and queen bossy-pants, I’m doing my level best to avoid “knowing.” Let the court consider this the prime piece of evidence: Did I not manufacture the ultimate distraction by packing up and moving to the Lake smack in the middle of Carter’s senior year?

As I deal with the aftermath of moving – the lost and misplaced items, the never-ending stream of household repairs, my struggle to understand the inner-workings of new appliances and systems, and the boxes, the endless stacks of still-packed boxes -- these past six weeks have bubbled over with even more distractions.

In March, we hosted a French exchange student, celebrated Carter’s 18^th and Julia’s 16^th birthdays, and traveled with 26 other families to spend Spring Break in the Dominican Republic. So far in April, we’ve celebrated Carter’s Eagle award and hosted 30-some kids for an after prom party. Today alone, my car broke down, the septic system alarm sounded, the icemaker broke again, and the garage door refused to close. Still, I know I’ll wake up tonight, just like nearly every other night, with the same mournful thought: He’s almost gone.

I didn’t see this coming. In fact, I’ve always claimed I’d celebrate as my kids scoot the coop. For me, parenting teenagers isn’t merely challenging and thought-provoking, it’s flat-out wearying and exhausting. I, for one, am tired of staying awake ‘til my chickadees get home from the game on Friday nights. I’m worn out from riding herd on hormones and keeping up with social media. I’m tired of talking about colleges and testing and AP exams. And talking about which classmates have the most fabulous clothes, cars, houses and trust funds? Don’t get me started.

But as we hurtle toward graduation and college, I don't want this time to end.

I’m going to miss Carter. Julia and I both will. For all his hard-headed habits and maddening methodology (did he really think that putting his shoes in the freezer would make them smell better?), Carter brings levity and mirth (now there’s an SAT word!) to our home. Carter is, in fact, an entire test-full of SAT words: obstinate, persistent, petulant, disdainful, belligerent, mercurial, contrary, truculent, vociferous, ingenious, assiduous, sublime.  He makes me think, and he challenges me. He harasses Julia, and he supports her. He teases us when we watch “Crazy Stupid Love” nearly every weekend, and then, he watches it with us. He takes out the trash. He makes playlists for me to listen to at work. And this week, for the first time ever, he included a photo of me on his Facebook page.

Out of nowhere. Which made me cry.

Whatever will I do without him?

Rosemary White Bean Dip

One thing Julia and I agree on is that, when Carter leaves for college, we'll eat a lot more "chick" food, including this super-easy, super-tasty, and super-cheap dip!

1 can of white beans (cannellini) drained

1 teaspoon fresh rosemary, minced

3 tablespoons (good) exra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/4 teaspoon hot sauce (or more to taste)

Pulse all ingredients in a food processor, or, even easier, blend with an immersion blender until mostly smooth. Serve with chips.

Know It Or Not -- We've Got It Good.

A few days ago, in a pique of disbelief and irritation and disappointment, I admonished one of my teens, “You’re behaving like one of those over-indulged, over-privileged kids you claim to disdain!”

My child paused. For a single delusional nanosecond, I felt I’d scored a point. Far less than a delusional nanosecond later, though, I crash-landed back to reality. Far from affected, my child was regarding me curiously, as if I were speaking a foreign language, and badly at that. Hardly a proud parenting moment.

Although disappointed, I get it. My kids are no different from most of their peers. They have no idea how “good” they have it. And why would they? I certainly didn’t at that age.

I suppose we can’t help but compare our lives to others’. Maybe it’s a function of being a kid, though, that teens don’t compare their lives to those of the less fortunate. Perhaps our carefully protected and “blindered” children can't help but keep a comparative eye on the more fortunate – the ones not only with vacation homes, but second vacation homes and home theaters and home gyms and passports stamped full long before they expire.

As adults though, we have a better sense of those on the other end of the spectrum: The ones struggling to pay their mortgages; the parents laid-off months ago who flat-out can’t find another job; the hard-working folks who can’t send their kids to college; the families who jeopardize their own health because they don't have access to the basic medical and preventative care so many Americans take for granted.

A few days ago, I wrote about Charlotte Radiology’s current PR campaign. They’ve placed about 30 pink (and hoo boy, they are some kind of pink) tires in front of local businesses. For every picture taken and posted on Facebook, Charlotte Radiology will make a donation to Ann’s Fund, whose mission is to provide mammograms to underprivileged women.

Then, though, Charlotte Radiology upped the ante, rolling out their new mobile breast care center.  You've got to see this thing.  It’s also pink, and hoo boy, it is some kind of pink. More important, it provides a more convenient option for breast cancer screening, serving women who might not otherwise have easy access to mammograms.

The mobile unit is the only one of its kind in our area, and not only will it make mammograms more accessible, it may remind others of us – like me – to continue getting our routine screening – not only for our own sakes, but for the many people – grateful and not – who rely on us.

Mammograms, of course, aren’t the only way we can take care of ourselves. Study after study indicates that, with changes in our diets, we can help affect our future.

Of all things, lowly, humble kale – with its beta-carotenes and luteins and phytochemicals -- is one of the foods highly recommended.  And although I adore greens of all sorts, not everybody does.  This recipe, though, may change their minds.  Just as Charlotte Radiology is changing lives.

Crispy Kale Chips

Super easy and super tasty, this recipe will convert many avowed greens-haters.  You could serve these as a side dish, or even with fried or poached eggs at breakfast, but I'm crazy about them just as they are.  They shatter crisply and satisfyingly on first bite.  All on my own, I can devour an entire bunch of kale -- and feel great at the same time!

One bunch of kale, well washed and spun dry

2 tablespoons olive oil

3 cloves garlic, very finely minced

2-3 shakes of red pepper flakes

kosher or sea salt

Preheat oven to 500 degrees.  Cut out ribs of kale.  Stack leaves and cut, crosswise, into 1 1/2 inch strips.  Set aside.  Combine olive oil, garlic and red pepper flakes.  Toss well with kale.  Spread evenly on a very large baking sheet.  Sprinkle well with salt.  Roast in oven for 6-7 minutes, tossing and fluffing every few minutes.  When kale is crispy (like fine potato chips), it's done.  Serve warm or at room temperature.  Yum!

I Love To Write. And Cook. And Write.

Son was incredulous right from the start.

When I began writing Feminine Wiles – and at that point, it was more of a daily addiction than a habit – Son asked, without a hint of sarcasm, “Do you get money for this?”

Fair enough. I was a newly divorced, stay-at-home mom. Extra cash would’ve had encountered no speed bumps traversing our welcome mat. I think, though, what Son was asking was, “Why write when you have no teachers, no deadlines and no nosy parent incessantly asking, ‘Is your paper done? Is your paper done?’”

Fair enough. Still, Feminine Wiles served a purpose for me. Any PSYCH-101 student would correctly recognize that writing was an outlet. I was struggling to identify myself and re-define my family. Just as important, writing a blog was a sneaky way to let my family know that I was, indeed, OK. True, I just wasn’t so good about speaking to them. Still, I was “writing” to them.

Look. I love my family. Nevertheless, I’ve never been one to share my inner-psyche workings. And navigating the divorce sucked away every random bit of my MC-squared. It took everything I could muster to take care of Son and Darling Daughter and me. I had no energy left to bear the kindness of strangers – much less that of family. Feminine Wiles was a way to assure my family that I was, indeed, “OK.”

Every now and again, I’d get a bit of recognition– a kind comment on my blog, a mention in the newspaper, some new subscribers. And again, Son have to ask, “Are you getting paid for this now?”

Nope. Still not. I’ve worked through the divorce. I’ve re-defined my family. I’m back to talking to my family (although not as often as I should). Turns out I just like to write. And I’m not alone.

Yesterday was “I Love To Write” Day. No kidding.  And hoo boy, I do love to write. I love to write emails on behalf of clients. I love to write text messages to my kids. I love to write Feminine Wiles. I even like writing recipes. The second edition of Feminine Wiles: The Cookbook is sufficient evidence of that. Still, I’m always somewhat inhibited at the start.

Take this recipe for Herbed Cream Cheese. I’ve made it for years. Loved it for years. Shared it for years. But even now, as I key it in, I wonder: Is it clear? Does it sound overwhelming? Is it sufficiently descriptive?  Is it easy to follow?

And I hear Son asking, “Do you get paid for this?”

I guess, in a way, the answer is, “Absolutely.”

Just not in dollars.

Herbed Cream Cheese (Mock Boursin)
I make quarts of this every holiday season, because it keeps so well and is always so welcomed. One year, I even packed it in crocks and gave it out as gifts with small serving knives and baguettes. I don’t know that a holiday gift has ever been so well-received! 

1 lb. cream cheese, room temperature
1/2 lb. unsalted butter, room temperature
1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon each dried basil, marjoram, dillweed and thyme
1/4 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper and ground cayenne pepper
2 large cloves of garlic, minced or grated

Beat together all ingredients until well combined. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Bring to room temperature before serving with sliced bread or crackers. (Keeps well – a week or longer!)

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. And A Cone Of Safety.

Darling Daughter is attending an 80s-themed birthday party this weekend.

The 80s?  Say whaaaatttttt?  OMG.  I suddenly have an ice-cream-headache-like stab in my brain.  OH-EMM-GEE!  I'm flashing back to lazy Sunday afternoons in the 1970s, listening to Charleston’s WTMA (“The Mighty TMA”) radio playing the “Golden Oldies” – which, of course, meant sock-hop music from the 50s.  “At The Hop,” “Chantilly Lace” and “The Twist” come to mind.

See where I'm going?  The 80s are Darling Daughter’s “Golden Oldies!” 

I try not to swallow my own tongue.  Unflinchingly, DD serves up another cerebral popsicle, “What did they wear back then?” she asked.  (Wait for it, ‘cause it gets worse.) “Was it like in the movie Grease?”

Grease?  Really?  “Let’s Google it,” I delicately suggest.  So we checked out Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan.  And Jennifer Beals in Flashdance.  And then, Cyndi Lauper’s classic, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

Everyone loves that song, right?  Everyone, of course, except, DD, who proclaimed, “She’s just plain weird.”

Whatever.  Here’s what I think:  Girls do wanna have fun.  But it’s not what some people think.

Last week, I got to have a GNO (Girls Night Out) with a few old friends, a few new friends and some friends I’d never met.

Oh what a night.  But again, not what some people might think.  There's a belief, I think, that when women get together, all we talk about is our husbands, or the secret reason we're single, or the crushes we had on other girls in high school, or the craziest place we’d ever “done it,” or the time ...  C'mon!  Really? 

Let me let you in a on a little secret.  When a bunch of girls/women get together, it’s not because we’re auditioning for “Your Mom’s Gone Wild,” or because we’re telling the real story behind the divorce or because we’re looking for lapdances, lingerie or a magnum of Pinot Noir.  OK.  Just kidding about the Pinot.  Everyone knows that a little wine – or sangria or margaritas – never hurt anybody.  Truly, when a bunch of us get together, we mostly just want to laugh.  We want to share stories and feel safe and laugh.  Nothing tawdry about it.

Nevertheless, at Kathy’s last weekend, we agreed that we were all in the “cone of safety.”   On the Bob & Sheri Show here in Charlotte, the virtual "cone of safety" is invoked anytime the hosts or their guests wants to say something without fear of repercussion or judgment.   In other words, when we lowered the "cone," we all knew that what happened at Kathy’s, stayed at Kathy’s.

In that nest of safety, well-feathered by Pinot – or whatever dark red liquid was in those bottomless glasses – we told plenty of stories.  Laughed and laughed and laughed.  But as it turns out, there was no real need for a “cone of safety.”  Nothing shocking or horrifying or mildly embarrassing was revealed.  We just had fun.  We laughed -- and giggled and guffawed.  We swore to do it again.  We even exchanged a few recipes.

Kinda.  On her kitchen table spread, Kathy had a fabulous chilled shrimp dish – saucy, spicy and bursting with flavors.  I couldn’t wait to try it at home.  Within days, I mixed up a batch.  Loved it.  Even bragged about it on Facebook.  But as it turns out, I kinda missed an ingredient.  OK, two.

So I guess what I’m writing about today is “Not Kathy’s Spicy Chilled Shrimp.”

But who knows?  I got the recipe while in the cone of safety.  Maybe some things – like a quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil and a sliced onion – get to stay there.  Along with John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John.  Without judgment or repercussions.

Not Kathy’s Spicy Chilled Shrimp

2 pounds shrimp, poached with ½ lemon, 1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning, 1 tablespoon salt and 1 bay leaf until barely done, drained

1 cup ketchup

5 ½ ounce jar of Zataraine’s Creole Mustard

5 ½ ounce jar of Zataraine’s Prepared Horseradish

juice of half a lemon

Drain shrimp, discarding lemon and bay leaf.  Combine with remaining ingredients in a resealable plastic bag.  Chill overnight.  Serve with crackers or over salad.

I'm A Listmaker. Not That There's Anything Wrong With That.

A few days ago, one of the kids’ friends asked whether I intended to buy the new iPhone 4G. 

Nope. There’s absolutely no reason to trade in my 3G, I insisted. Furthermore, exactly how crazy do I look? Do I look as if I’m made of money? (OK. I didn’t actually say that last bit. But my kids knew I was thinking it.)

Twelve hours later, my 3G hit the road – literally – one too many times. And there it was. The unalterably-blank screen. I now had a reason – an overwhelming one -- to trade in my 3G.

Sigh. Off to the always-mobbed Apple Store at Southpark Mall, where, upon crossing the threshold, you have to wade through the masses to track down the blue-shirted master-list-keeper, so you can get on the proper waiting list to have one of the blue-shirted product-keepers help you buy something – anything – which in this case, was a 4G.

Still, the next day, as we drove down to the lake, I told the kids and Cougar Bait that it hadn't been all that bad. I’d qualified for the “upgrade,” so I didn’t have to pay full ticket. All my emails, text messages, contacts, songs, games and photos were synced to my Mac, so no problem there. My only real concern was that I’d lost my lists.

Over the years, I explained, I’ve kept all kinds of lists on my phones. To-do’s. Gift ideas. (A ceiling fan? Really?) Bumper stickers. (“Unlike the hellbound demon spawn in your car, my children are saved.”) Unexpected sightings (an African-American man wearing a t-shirt reading, I’m the white man who’s been keeping you down.) Stuff my kids say, which I can post on my “Overheard At My House” page on Facebook. (Son, describing one of his sister’s textbooks, “If the Devil wrote a bible, this would be it.”)

Oh – and let’s not forget my list of words that can be typed using every single finger, but each only once.

Cripes. Should’ve stopped with the “Overheard At My House” list. But maybe I didn’t mention that last list out loud. The car, after all, was oddly quiet. But wait for it.  Thirty seconds later, the three of them, in unison, said, “You do WHAT?”

Whatever. I’m Cheri and I’m a listmaker. A few years ago, I realized that typing the word “pleasing” requires using every finger once.  So it became a personal little quest. And to keep track, I keep a list.  So what?

C’mon. It could be worse. Way worse. Just think of the things that other people write in emails. Or put in text messages (Tiger Woods). Or say on tape (Mel Gibson). ‘Nuff said.

My little list, albeit quirky, is fairly harmless. Besides, thanks to MobileMe, my list was restored later that day – which allows me to boast that my current list includes 15 words – if you include proper nouns and the occasional oddity.  Which I do.

Is “replanks” a word?  On my list, yes.  Yes indeed.

Speaking of quirky and harmless, you’ve got to try these sautéed chickpeas. They’re not a side dish, really (although I guess they could be). And as far as hors d’oeuvres go, they’re a bit messy – kind of like olives. Plus, you can change the seasoning up any way you like. I’m showing them here with cumin and chili powder, but you can also try them with fresh minced rosemary and lemon zest. And, oh my, are they tasty.

“Pleasing,” in fact, is the word that comes to mind. P-L-E-A-S-I-N-G.

Sautéed Chickpeas

1 can chickpeas (garbanzo beans), drained, rinsed, patted dry
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon chili powder
½ teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. When oil begins to ripple, stir in remaining ingredients, shaking and stirring occasionally, until chickpeas begin to brown slightly (about 10 minutes). Drain on a paper towel, check for seasonings (salt), and munch away.

An Ode To Cream Cheese.

Do you know how many calories are in an 8-ounce brick of cream cheese?  I do.

Dammit.

The fact of the matter is that, I can, without any provocation, consume all eight ounces.  And then some.  I love cream cheese.  I could pen an ode to cream cheese.  I kneel at the very altar of cream cheese.  On its own.  Mashed with chopped olives.  Sweetened for cheesecake.  (For the very Best Cheesecake Recipe ever, click here.)

When we were kids, and we were very good (i.e., “silent”), and Daddy was feeling very generous (i.e., “distracted”), we got to sit down (i.e., “sneak in”) as he watched ABC’s Wild World of Sports (from one of the four – count ‘em, four -- channels we received Chez Fountain 1975), and indulge in Coke served in frozen mugs and chips and Dip.

Serendipity.

There was only one Dip in our household.  Not “The Dip.”  Just “Dip” – cream cheese, garlic salt, onion salt, all mashed up and thinned out with a bit of water.  Ooh – and if you’ve got ‘em, some minced up pickled banana peppers.  Ta.  Dah.  “Dip.”

As you might imagine, last week, when Daddy came to visit (to buy an RV – which in itself is an RV-sized story), I automatically reached into the fridge for the Philadelphia Cream Cheese.  For Dip.  With chips.  (Ruffles.  Duh.)

A few days later, though, I pulled a second package from the fridge and examined the nutrition facts.  One brick of that salty, bland, creamy, heavenly cheese has 800 calories.  And let's not talk about portion size.  That single, none-too-slim, silvery packet is a “serving,” is it not?

Which brings me to another “dammit.”

My upcoming 30th high school reunion.

I need to lose 10 pounds.  OK.  If you insist.  Twelve.  In five weeks.

Like that will happen.  A dear friend recently told me that he lost 9 pounds in 21 days just by counting calories.  Really?  ‘Cause I don’t think I can count that high.  But I reckon I do need to start skipping the cream cheese.  And pork chops.  And bacon.  Maybe.

Tell you what, though.  There’s a perfectly fine – no, divine  -- substitute for cream cheese.  Plain Greek Yogurt.

No kidding.  A tub of plain, thick, creamy tangy Greek yogurt is the perfect dip base.  So perfect, in fact, very little seasoning is required.  A little garlic, a few fresh herbs, a squeeze of lemon juice.  Just like ranch dip.  But not.  Ta.  Dah.

And no.  I’m not at all optimistic I can lose those 10 (OK, 12) pounds pre-Reunion.  But I do now know how many calories are an 8-ounce brick of cream cheese.  800.  And in 8 ounces of plain, nonfat Greek yogurt?  120.

Even I can count that high.

Ranch-Style Yogurt Dip

It's important that "Greek" yogurt -- which is very thick and creamy -- be used.
1 16-ounce tub of plain Greek yogurt
2 tablespoons finely minced fresh parsley
2 tablespoons finely minced fresh chives
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 clove garlic

Mince garlic, as finely as possible.  Now, using knife "cut in" salt, until garlic is so finely minced that the salt becomes part of it -- like a paste.  Combine salty garlic paste with remaining ingredients.  Chill and serve with fresh cut vegetables or crackers.

Season's Almost Over. Back to Laundry and Housekeeping and Cooking.

It still surprises me to say this, but baseball season is almost over -- and I'm sad.

I know.  For most fans, the season just began.  It’s so early in the Major League Baseball season that even the most hopeful fan can’t seriously ask, “How ‘bout those Cubbies?”

But I don’t follow MLB.  I follow HSB – high school baseball -- and only one week remains in the regular season.  One week.  Two games.  Fourteen innings.  Eighty-four outs.  To paraphrase Yogi Berra, it's over when it’s over.

When Son was little, he tried several sports.  Up in our attic is a box stuffed with little soccer and basketball “participant” trophies – the sort handed over to any eight-year-old whose parents are willing to stroke a check to the league and buy a pair of diminutive shinguards.

For Son, baseball’s the sport that stuck.  Seven years later, the trophies for those big-inflatable-balled sports share space with our Christmas decorations and a noisy family of bats (the winged kind).  The baseball trophies, on the other hand, including a pair of gargantuan Dilworth Little League championship trophies that nearly justified the construction of a trophy room Chez Wiles, still occupy the place of honor on Son’s bedroom shelves.

Those first few seasons nearly did me in.  Baseball devours a family evening or a weekend.  A game can last for-fricking-ever.  And with extra innings, for-fricking-ever and ever.  Amen.  Soccer and basketball, with their stopwatches and gameclocks and precisely-timed halves, snug right into a family calendar.  The Great American Pasttime contrarily laughs at the notion of “schedule.”  No time limit.  No neat little 10-minute periods.  No predictable Thursday practices.

Little League practices and games might be scheduled for Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday one week and Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday the next.  Where little Mia Hamms and LeBron Jameses might have to show up 15-30 minutes before gametime, little Derek Jeters are expected 60 minutes prior.  In baseball parlance, by the way, 60 minutes early translates into 75 minutes early.  If you’re on time, you’re late.

It took me an entire season – maybe two – to learn to relax and enjoy the games.  One reason, of course, was flat-out fanny-clenching fear for my kid.  Fear that he would be “that kid” – the one out in left field picking daisies and turning cartwheels.  The one who swats at the ball and twirls into a 360.  Or, worse, the one who hits the ball, but runs to third base instead of first.  I'd worry that he was never going to hit the ball.  And then, worry that he'd never hit it again.

If for one second on those back-crippling bleachers, I stopped worrying for Son, I’d then have to chase away my own demons: I could be doing laundry right now.  I could be catching up on bills right now.  I could be changing the sheets right now.  I could be cooking dinner right now. Instead, I’m being held hostage by an imposing man named "Blue" who wears a mask and makes lots of angry hand gestures, and a team of elementary-school-aged, bat-wielding terrorists with tight-fitting pants.

What a long way I’ve come.  I now bask in baseball.  I’m there early, I stay late.  I’ve got hand-warmers for games in freezing temperatures and freezer packs for games in sweltering heat.  I know what it means to “turn two,” “strike out the side” and “protect the plate.”  I know that the laundry will get done, the bills will get paid and, sometime during the week, a dinner will get cooked.  I also know that, in the course of the season, Son and Darling Daughter will eat their weight in Chick Fil A nuggets.

Turns out there's a limit to how many Chick FIl A Original sandwiches (no butter, extra pickles) I can eat, however.  Instead, I try to keep some easy-to-prepare, easy-to-eat food in the fridge, like Bacon and Egg Salad, Lentil and Feta Salad, and Black Bean Corn Salad.  This week, I had  a hankering for Pimento Cheese.  Given my distrust for sandwiches in general and mayonnaise in specific, I have to make my own.  This version uses lemon juice and cayenne to cut the cloying tendency of mayonnaise.  It’s great on wheat bread, celery sticks, crackers, or my favorite – a spoon.

One week, two games, 14 innings, 84 outs, and one fresh bowl of homemade pimento cheese.  I think I’m going to be OK.


Best Ever Pimento Cheese Spread
Growing up in Charleston, pimento cheese (or, as some folks pronounced it, "minner" cheese) sandwiches were served at receptions of every sort -- all fancy, on white bread with the crusts cut off.  Most people, though, would use the store-bought variety, which is probably what turned me away from pimento cheese for so many years.  This version, though, is flavorful and zesty and fresh-tasting -- worthy of any reception table, crusts and all.


6 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
1/8 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (or more to taste)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
fresh ground black pepper
2 teaspoons grated onion (optional)
10 oz. extra sharp Cheddar cheese, freshly grated (do not use pre-grated)
4 oz. canned pimentos, chopped


In a medium sized mixing bowl, combine all ingredients except cheese and pimentos.  Gradually stir in cheese and pimentos until well combined and moistened.  Chill for an hour or two, and use as a dip for celery sticks or a spread on sandwiches or crackers.

Everyone Has An Opinion, And In Mine, Reunions Are Terrifying.

When I was pregnant (well after Bill Haley and His Comets flamed out, thank you very much, but well before the sun rose on Green Day, or practically any other band heard on Sirius 26), I found all kinds of ways to dodge The Question:

“What are you going to name the baby?”

Even now, when I hear someone else – even a total stranger – being asked The Question, I want to shriek, “Don’t answer!  It’s a trick!  You’re about to have your bubble burst, your dreams shattered!  You’re exposing your tender and most intimately-considered plans to a gut-sucking, albeit cape-less, emotional marauder of comic book proportions.” 

No, I don’t think I’m overstating.

We hear stories of newborns named, unexpectedly, after obstetricians, nurses, and, if you ascribe to urban myth, hospital food.  Surely you’ve heard of the tiny twins afflicted with the unfortunate monikers of “Orangello” and “Limongello,” ostensibly for the gelatin flavors the new mom most enjoyed post-delivery?  Truth be told, who could blame her?  After all the baby-naming babble and umbilical cord snipping and opinion-injection of every English-speaking person on the planet – and perhaps a few Aussies – it’s easy to lose track of your own opinion.

Did I really name my kid ‘Orangello’?  Do I even like ‘Orangello’?  Didn’t I hear about a school bully named ‘Orangello’?  Wait.  Am I hungry?  Are you going to eat that chicken?  Can we have Jello for dessert?  Maybe banana-strawberry flavored?

High school reunions, it seems, evoke a similar reaction.  Everyone has an opinion.  And the current universal opinion seems to be that I’m a smack-talking, lily-livered, Scotch-drinking, feather-shedding chicken butt.

I recently wrote about my ambivalence – fine, call the spade by its name, “terror” – regarding my upcoming 30^th high school reunion.  I couldn’t believe how many people chirped up.   You have to go.  30^th is the best ever.  Everyone’s counting on you.  You’ll regret it if you don’t.

Holy cow.  (Or, as my mom’s husband says, “sanctified bovine.”)

I’m going already.  But until then, I’m working my butt off.  Actually, that’s not accurate.  I know you can’t “work” your butt off.  Nor can you “talk” someone’s ear off.  And saddest of all, you can’t “laugh” your ass off. 

I’ve tried. If all it took was working, talking and laughing, I'd be the skinniest person around.  And my friends wouldn't have anything to hook their sunglasses onto.  But I’ve tugged on those “fat jeans.”  Trust me, everything's still there.

I’ve got a few months to go, though.  I just need to work out more.  And eat better. 

This Black Bean and Corn Salad is a good start.  Easy to make, lots of protein, lots of fiber and low in fat.  It’s really, really good served as  a salsa with Fritos Scoopers, too.  But for now, I’m passing on Fritos.  Jello, too.

Besides.  I heard that Orangello might make it to the reunion.

Black Bean and Corn Salad With Lime Dressing

1 can black beans, rinsed and drained well

1 can sweet corn, rinsed and drained well

½ cup finely chopped red onion

½ cup finely chopped red bell pepper

juice of two limes (about ¼ cup)

¼ cup canola oil

½ teaspoon chili powder

½ teaspoon kosher salt

¼ teaspoon fresh ground pepper

1 avocado, peeled and sliced, or optionally, halved

Combine all ingredients except avocado.  Stir gently and refrigerate until well chilled.  Serve over avocado slices.

High School Daze: Reunions, Cocktail Sauce and Self-Doubt.

We’re the best, ain’t no maybe.

We’re the Class of 1980.

What was I thinking?

I was back in Charleston a few months ago and ran into a friend from high school.  Really nice guy.  Married.  After a couple of graciously-poured single malt Scotches, one thing led to another, and yep, you guessed it, I agreed to organize our 30^th class reunion.  (That is what you guessed, right?)

What was I thinking?

It’s not so surprising that I agreed to spearhead the Fort Johnson High School Class of 1980 reunion.  I went to school with lots of exceptionally capable, energetic, well-organized folks, and many of them still live in Charleston.  They know local caterers and bartenders and DJs, and the truth is, if there’s one thing the Fort Johnson Trojans know how to do, it’s throw a party.  My friends have already unearthed people I thought we’d never track down.  You can bet my classmates will be the ones to pull this thing off.

What’s surprising is that I agreed to go at all.

High school is four years of the most fun you’ll ever have.  Forty-eight months of growth and experimentation and self-realization.  Forty-eight months of doubt and awkwardness and self-loathing.

I’d want to re-visit that why?

We graduated in 1980.  Flash forward 30 years.  You know that girl who hasn’t gained an ounce since graduation?  You hate her, right?  Well then, you’d love me.

Based on what I'm hearing from former classmates, I'm not alone.  Plainly, some of that doubt and awkwardness and self-loathing is still lodged in place.  I know.  It's not like I'm a candidate for The Biggest Loser.  Let's just say I no longer have to worry about the American Red Cross telling me I don’t weigh enough to donate blood.  My wrinkles resemble those on nearly any 47-year-old – not the crevasses I deserve after all those 6-hour days on the beach.  We'd never even heard of "sunscreen."  There was "suntan lotion" (for "deep, dark, tropical tans) and Johnson & Johnson baby oil (for sizzling, searing, blistering burns).  And my hair?  Well, it’s nothing that a bottle of Clairol Nice ‘n Easy can’t remedy.  OK.  That’s a lie.  Nothing my fabulous hair stylist can’t remedy.  (Love you, Crystal!)

You have to wonder to what extent hair salons, weight loss programs, clothing boutiques and, let’s be honest, cosmetic surgeons, rely on class reunions.  Sure, they only come around every five to 10 years, but when they do, hoo boy.  New Year’s resolutions pale in comparison.  I don’t just want to lose weight.  I want to be adorably slim, totally ripped, fabulously dressed, sophisticatedly coiffed, and, of course, ridiculously happy with my station in life.  And natch, tan.

So yeah.  I’ll be there.  But I’m not eating anything until August 7, 2010.  Well, except chai tea lattes.  And maybe sangria.

So I hope my classmates arrange to have fabulous food at the reunion.  And since we'll be in the Lowcountry, I bet some of it will require cocktail sauce.

It’ll be a bit too early for oysters, but shrimp?  Definitely.  And where there’s shrimp, there’s cocktail sauce.  And with luck, a 1980 Fort Johnson Trojan who’s a few pounds – and a few hair shades – lighter.

Cocktail Sauce (for Seafood)

There are plenty of bottled cocktail sauces out there, but I don’t know anyone who buys them.  There’s no reason to buy someone else’s cocktail sauce when you can make your own with three simple ingredients.

1 12-ounce bottle of Heinz Chili Sauce

2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice

2 tablespoons (or more, to taste) refrigerated prepared horseradish

Combine all ingredients.  Chill and serve with fresh poached local shrimp.  Or oysters.  Or even saltine crackers.  Yum.